


King/Ghost in the Song

by unevenstar



Series: Hetalia Drabbles 2020 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Lost Love, Realistic, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unevenstar/pseuds/unevenstar
Summary: the two flips of a coin when you let someone go - listen along to the tune by grabbitz.
Relationships: Norway/Romania (Hetalia)
Series: Hetalia Drabbles 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997740
Kudos: 6





	King/Ghost in the Song

I - King  
\- 

It’s finally over, Mircea thinks, staring up into the great wide sky. The smell of flowers delight as he turns to brush his hand against wildflower petals. His feet, planted in the ground, feel the power of the earth rushing in everything that moves. The tree branches, the breeze, the birds that flutter and sing.  


It is not Romania, no. It would never be as good as there, yet for now everything he needs is in this open field in an August noon. The feeling of fresh air, omnipresent, enthralls Mircea; under the sun and above the wild grasses, he feels like he is home. As he is alone, he is forever free, spreading his arms out in the warm light with a smile. There is no moment like this. Nowhere else he wants to be.  


His freedom is inevitable, coming like the morning sun. There will be no greater happiness when the truth lets itself be known.

\-----

II - Ghost In A Song  
\- 

Sigurd sits under the torrent of water, watching the water soak his shirt. A chill shoots down his spine as he traces little circles in his pale hands. Maybe he wishes he had a porch to protect him from the elements, but there’s no cover needed. This is his time to be pensive and selfish and utterly himself: the rain will take care of the rest.  


He runs his fingers through his wet hair and flicks droplets out of his eyes. What he thinks of was a mistake, his own fault, something he would have to clean up after. Like his clothes, shoes. His bag gone to the storm.  


Vaguely, he hears noises. They are cries for his attention, worries that he will grow cold and catch one, too. Sigurd, with the pride of a child, shakes his head and loses himself in the tumbling, great turrets that are thunderheads.  


Rubbing freezing fingers against his temples, he gets up from his recluse form although his thoughts whirl and howl like the wind. Albeit he is tall, the storm makes Sigurd feel like the smallest child, helpless. Helpless because he knew he had let the right one go.


End file.
